Pint Sized Wordsoup
by Tafferling
Summary: Chris Redfield contemplates home without those he's lost. Kyle Crane pranks his way through the B.S.A.A. And Piers Nivans dabbles in Christmas bakery. All that and more, in my contributions to the continued Pint Sized prompts challenges run on /r/fanfiction, meant to produce drabbles between 100 to 400 words long. I may not get to them all, but I'll try to fill as many as I can.
1. Bromance

**Taffer Notes:** 100 words - Platonic love. Does your character love their best friend, their worst enemy, or...?

 **Fandom:** _Resident Evil_ **Characters:** _Chris Redfield, Piers Nivans_

* * *

 **#Bromance**

* * *

Friday. Stateside. _Home_.

One knock at the door and Piers opens, a sheepish grin on him.

" _Ready to get your ass kicked, Captain?"_

A routine they've perfected: Beer. Pizza. Games.

The latter he's too old for, yet Piers insists, says it lets them live and breathe a little. Think less. Do less.

And they both need more of that.

Friday. Stateside.

Chris sits quiet, beer squeezed between his thighs, two slices of pizza untouched on the table.

It's been a year, but he remembers where they left off.

Together.

" _You wish,"_ he says— set to finish what they started.

Alone.


	2. No Talking!

**Taffer Notes:** **No Talking!** \- 400 words - Progress a plot without your characters speaking or making noise. Spooktacular bonus: Your character is not alone when they think they are.

Fandom: **Resident Evil** Characters: **Chris Redfield, Piers Nivans**

* * *

 **#Sword Key**

* * *

Silence. Stifling and thick, pressed tight to his ears. _THUMP-THUMP,_ his heart goes _THUMP-THUMP._ Calm. Collected. Used to the strain, to keeping him company as he works.

Chris flicks his eyes right, follows the sweep of his flashlight and listens for anything but the click of his rifle, the settling of his steps, and the faint _Swoosh_ of his clothing. He hears nothing.

The light scatters shadows within the hallway, turns expensive cabinets into blocks of weeping darkness, and snags on wall mounted candle fixtures.

First door— and he turns on the spot, rakes the light up and down the hall —unlocked. The rifle snaps close to his chest, business end down, finger hovering by the trigger. He nudges the handle. _THUMP-THA-THUMP_ Heart rate up, ready for anything, because you never know... Leans into the door. It swings open and he's through— rifle up, cutting left, then right.

Clear.

Disappointed and relieved, Chris backs out to resume his sweep, finds two more rooms standing silent as the rest of the house— no, a mansion, had to be a fucking mansion, because why the fuck not —before he's back where he started, at the mouth of an overpass feeding into the next wing.

 _Movement._

The rifle bites hard into his shoulder and his grip tightens. _THA-THA-THUMP-THA-THA_ — more light cutting his way, and Chris lets his finger slide away from the trigger.

Piers.

There's a nod into his direction and they line up, shoulder to shoulder, Piers moving backwards, him forward, and at the other end of the bridge it's just a matter of him jutting the rifle right. Both turn that way.

More rooms, but together now. Piers cracks the doors open, Chris steps through. Clear. God damn fucking clear. Where is she?

Rinse and repeat, until they're in no-mans land, because down that particular hall he smells death and the silence breaks. A stir of _something_ sits at the edge of his hearing and he follows it. Finds another door. Thicker than the others. Locked.

Chris frowns at the symbol worked into the plaque above it: A sword.

His right eye twitches. His finger on the trigger does too.

Piers nudges his shoulder and Chris steps away. A handful of heartbeats later Piers stands across of him, remote detonator in one hand, and a faint grin on his lips that says: _Ready, Captain?_

Chris nods. _Damn right I am._


	3. Disgusting

**Taffer Notes:** The villain wins by grossing out your hero, and in which the Taffer's headcanon turns Kyle Crane into the residential prankster who will start a war on all fronts. 100 words (x 2 because I couldn't decide on which one to use)

Fandom: **Resident Evil / Dying Light** Characters features in this one: **Chris Redfield, Piers Nivans, Kyle Crane**

* * *

 **#Disgusting**

"What's with him?" Piers leans his hip against the desk, flicks his eyes up at Kyle perched on the table, all legs and lazy slouch while chewing on a snickers bar.

Across of them, Chris sits hunched over his phone. Shoulders up. Brows pinched. Pensive as fuck, Piers thinks, and taps Kyle's leg when all he gets his a mouthful of _hruuhmm_.

"Oh, I don't know—" Kyle's not even trying to pretend, what with that slow, impish grin curling his lips. " _Someone_ might have sent him a Best of Tumblr: ChrisXWesker. Might have. Maybe. How am I supposed to know?"

 **... a few days later at the BSAA HQ ...**

A jab of his hand along the rifle: _Go._

Boots kiss the ground, heavy but careful as they they thud past, their rhythmic fall reverberating through the staircase.

Another flick. Quick, decisive, fingers indicating a corner: _Eyes— Left— Cover me._

No _Yessir_ , not even the barest of nods, and Piers is past him, his shoulder sliding against the wall, weapon ready, eyes _always_ ready, scanning. Searching.

Chris moves, reassured by the rifle pressed to his shoulder, the faint scent of gun oil, hint of sharp gunpowder. Hears— _'What?'_ _OhGodYesYeeeeesUuuuhYeesBabyYeeeeaaUuuuuh—_ some woman's extatic moans and an enthusiastic buzz out of Pier's pocket.


	4. Homecoming

**Taffer Notes:** **Presents!** \- 100 words - Someone receives an unexpected gift

Fandom: **Resident Evil** Characters: **Chris Redfield** (and a secret admirer)

* * *

 **#Homecoming**

* * *

Snow crunches underfoot and Chris is tired, the lot of him ready to file a cease and desist. But he's home— a few more steps up his porch and of course the light doesn't come on. Same. Deal. Every. Time.

"Well, fuck—" he mutters, and notices a bag hanging from the doorknob. A tentative peek reveals a porchlight bulb, along with a note of: " _Merry Late Christmas 3_ "

His eyes flick up, to the Holidays twinkling back at him from the neighbourhood, and a window with its curtains falling shut as he catches sight of a set of dark eyes.


	5. Kitchen Wars

**Taffer Notes: Chores** – 100 words - Sometimes mundane, everyday tasks can be fun!

Fandoms: **Resident Evil** , **Dying Light** Characters: **Chris Redfield, Kyle Crane, Sadja Shielding**

* * *

 **#Kitchen Wars**

* * *

Silence. Chris knows when those two stop bickering the world's about to end, or someone's about to die. Considering they're in _his_ kitchen, cleaning his dishes, that gets him to _his_ feet. He leaves his beer and hope for peace behind, and finds chaos ready to unravel.

Sadja has a bowl riding low on her head, wields a spatula in her left hand, and gives Kyle in front of her a come hither wave with her right. He cocks his head, darts forward, a wisp clutched tight and swinging wildly— and Chris figures he might as well just pull up a chair.


	6. Hold my Beer

**Taffer Notes: Hold My Beer** – 100 words – Character totally got this ;)

Fandoms: **Dying Light** Characters: **Kyle Crane**

* * *

 **#Hold My Beer**

* * *

She's made of an unrestrained, wild right to _be_ , squat and low, thick wheeled and wide shoulders— she's wet leather, the sharp sting of rust and gasoline, a dash of salt and seaweed lingering at the edges— she's a promise of freedom.

Kyle feels his heartbeat drumming along her rhythmic shudders, blending with hard guitars cracking through old speakers, and then she shifts at his behest, her rear end kicking, wheels chewing at soft sand.

And when they're ready, they fly, hurtling down the beach-side road, nose pointed straight at a ramp made of rock and every boys wet dreams.


	7. Gingerfield

**Taffer Notes:** December 7th: Gingerbad ~200 words - Baking gingerbread cookies is harder than it looks.

Fandom: **Resident Evil** | Characters: **Piers Nivans** , and **Chris Redfield** Guest starring Jill Valentine and Barry Burton.

* * *

 **#Gingerfield**

 **P** iers has brought a whole box of them. A full evening's worth of work, of flour in his hair, dough stuck to his fingers, and three burnt batches filling his apartment with the sticky sweet scent of vanilla and cinnamon.

The box sits in the office now, in the break room, right next to the coffee machine. He's tacked _Help yourself_ to it, and left it there to finish up his reports. Now it's time for a break himself and he wanders into the room.

"—don't tell me you don't see it?" He hears Jill, and finds her leaning over the box, flanked by Barry and Chris. His Captain stands a little to the side, a coffee mug in one hand and his hip leaning against the counter.

"Not really," he says over the rim of his cup.

"Help me out here, Barry." Jill turns and lifts one of the gingerbread pieces up, brandishing it in front of her old friend. "This," she adds. "Looks _just_ like Chris. I mean, look at it—"

She turns, the cookie pinched between her fingers, and holds it up in front of Captain Redfield, squinting past it.

"The resemblance is _striking._ That torso. The arms! I think it's even frowning. How can you _not_ see it?"

"Now that you mention it," Barry says, grinning widely, and Piers stands rooted on the spot, an embarrassed flush for no good fucking reason gripping at his neck.

Chris grunts. Sips his coffee. Looks left, his eyes flicking to Piers. A smirk half vanishes into the mug and his shoulders twitch with an apologetic shrug, right as his hand darts out and snatches the gingerbread from Jill's fingers.


	8. Housewarming

**Taffer Notes:** December 2nd, **Put On** \- around 200 words - Nothing says the holiday season like wearing ugly sweaters! Or silly hats! Or maybe those pants Aunt Mayble made you out of potholders...

December 3rd, Spike! - around 500 words - Oh no, someone has spiked the Eggnog! How terrible!

Combined two challenges in a bit more than 500 words.

Fandom(s): **Resident Evil, Dying Light, a Shielding Thing**. Characters: **Chris Redfield, Kyle Crane, Sadja Shielding**. Guest starring: Emma, Piers and Titus the Second

I could have gone for mean spiking and gone all dark, but I figure I'd let Sadja have a bit of alcohol instead. She's not usually allowed to drink...

* * *

 **# Housewarming**

 **A** lmost twenty days left to Christmas, and he wonders if it'll be the first one after too many years that he'll spend home. Or some measure of home, anyway. A measure that starts with Sadja someplace close by, a cup of hot, mulled wine in his hand, and a pair of comfortable socks instead of combat boots on his feet. Chris likes the odds of it, at any rate, even if he tries to hold out on the enthusiasm, because disappointment is a bitch he'd like to not deal with right now.

There's halfway peace at their host's place. Idle chatter. Emma's occasional jubilant squeals of delight as she entertains _Titus the Second,_ all the twelve weeks of German Shepherd fluff of him, with his clickety-clack claws skittering across the floor. A game rumbling on the TV, with Crane and Sadja in front of it, the latter standing because she can't _sit_ losing, and her opponent gloating from his seat.

It's nice, Chris thinks, and wanders over to the couch. Right when Sadja has herself defeated and Crane surges to his feet in triumph. They exchange pointed words. Jab controllers at each other. Jab their drinks too, and just when Chris thinks he's going to sit down behind them with a smile on his face, the whole commotion tilts towards him.

"You _cheat!"_ Sadja protests.

"You suck," he counters.

The perfectly coordinated disaster those two amount to turns, all elbows and arms and two decently filled glasses. Chris catches most of the drink on his shirt, and he swears they both freeze in unison and their eyes pop open wide.

"Ah shit," Crane mutters, and Sadja smirks.

He sighs, pinches at his shirt, now soggy and smelling of spiced wine, and then looks at the lightly swaying set of slim shoulders staring at him. Still smiling. Eyes still on him. Pupils wide, a thin, honey coloured corona ringing them.

' _Great.'_

"Did she get into the booze?" He glances at Crane, and the man frowns, shakes his head.

"Strictly non-alcohol, as ordered—" But he grabs her drink anyway, and gives it a sniff. "—Oh. Sorry." The frown turns to a rueful glance his way, and Chris feels his right eye twitch.

"She must have gotten the wrong glass," Crane tries to explain.

"Must have," Chris adds, swipes the glass and kicks it all back, feeling it go down hard and kicking at his brain a beat later. And she's had half of it, a recipe for an interesting evening to say the least— and she's tugging at his arm a moment later and then tucking herself under it, a murmur for a purr bouncing around her chest.

His right eye gives a twitch, but he pulls her in anyway.

Crane is off a moment later, reassures him that _I've got something for you to wear, stay here Captain_ , and Chris sits, pulling Sadja down along with him before she can run off and break something. Or someone.

She's invested in how she got beaten and retells her woes, and she's still talking when Crane hands him a sweater. Red. A bit of green. A bit of white. He swaps his shirt for the thing, and then regrets thanking the fucking bastard, because the moment his head pokes out the top Sadja lets outs a wheezing chuckle. She clicks her tongue at him and sits close, a curious set of fingers tugging at the fluff on the knitted piece, and quickly turns to question the need for bulbous red noses on crosseyed reindeers, and that those elves would certainly quote, unquote: _Freeze their tits off, because who wears bikinis in winter?_

Chris grabs her by the neck, muffles the questions against his chest, and settles for smiling.

Almost twenty days left until Christmas. And he's fine.


	9. 1st of July

**Taffer Notes:** December 5th: **Nice** ~200 words - An insanely kind gesture from someone unexpected.

Fandom: **Resident Evil** | Characters: **Chris Redfield** and a mystery guest

* * *

 **# 1st of July**

 **H** is phone buzzed with three tight hums knocking against the bar counter, and Chris let his eyes drift right. They snagged on _She's questioning Star Wars. Send help! -C_ and _u okay? /Claire_ sitting on the screen, and for a while he stared at them and contemplated smiling.

I didn't work. However much he tried, the ache wouldn't let him, because while he sat here, breathing smoky air and _remembering,_ Piers held on to an empty grave.

Chris frowned. Flipped the phone around. Pushed it aside. Swallowed thickly, his two year old grief going down hard and scratchy. Tart like the whiskey he lifted to his lips.

Ice clinked against glass. Empty.

The refill came quick. So did the next. And Chris let the haze settle. Welcomed it, even if shame smoldered dark and heavy against his heart for thinking drink was what'd make it better.

It wouldn't.

Nothing would.

Turning back time might—if he could—he would—get this shit right—not let—

"I'll have what he's having," the familiar, estranged voice called from his right. The barstool there creaked. A shoulder swam into his field of vision. "Make it three."

Chris blinked at Jake, watched him shrug a jacket from his shoulders and flip a pair of sunglasses on the counter.

The order arrived and Chris kept staring, useless words rummaging about his skull. He accept the offered glass. Clicked it against Jake's.

"Here's to the pup," Jake said over the rim of his drink, then promptly emptied the contents to the floor before picking up the last.

"And here's to us."


	10. Child's Play

**Taffer Notes:** First Frost - around 100 words - Winter just arrived and your character(s) are stuck outside in the cold.

Fandoms: **Dying Light** and my a **Shielding Thing**. Characters: **Sadja** and **ze Crane** ( _I call them_ _ **Sane**_ _. Cause they are anything but._ )

* * *

 **#Child's Play**

 **S** adja inches along, coiled and slow, every soft step hard work. Her hand tightens around her weapon. Eager. Ready. Only one more careful slide forward and she's behind him.

Her quarry is distracted. Unaware. His head bobs gently, fingers drumming against his thigh.

There'll be blood yet, she thinks and snaps forward.

A foot connects with the back of his knee. A hand snatches for his throat, feels heat against her fingers, the brush of a coarse beard. The weapon flies up.

He grunts. Stumbles. But doesn't fall, does _something_ though, his shoulder knocking into her chest and his back lifting her. The world is turned upside down, from blue to white, then white and blue, and _FFFWOOOPH—_ she hits the cold powder. A shriek (her). A laugh (him), and Crane is shoveling icy, wet snow into her shirt, not giving a toss about the fistfull of it she's squashing against the side of his head.


	11. Resident Santa

**Taffer Notes:** December 9th: Deck the Halls ~ 100 words

Fandom: **Resident Evil** | Characters: **Chris Redfield**

* * *

 **# Resident Santa**

 **I** t's a quiet sort of _POP_. Hollow. Sharp. A _PLAP-tsh_ , followed by the click of shards skidding across the hardwood floor. Three more follow, and Chris closes in on the noise, his eyes trained down the sights of the rifle flicking left—right— the gentle bob of the muzzle mirroring his breath.

He passes through a hall decked in reds and greens. Fluffy stockings line it to his right. Some bulging. Some dripping. Dark red oozes from heels and toes. _DRIP-DRIP_

He swallows, ignores what he can, and files away whatever he can't.

 _POP_

Closer this time. The room comes up. Wide. High ceiling. Soft light. Across of it, a stuttered chatter, a wet throat clicking at the scented air. Claws scrape the floor.

 _POP_

Another ornament falls from the tree, flicked aside by the swipe of a gnarly hand. Chris smells death ride the air. It mingles with the scent of cinnamon and orange, with saffron at the edges and a hint of vanilla. The mix turns his stomach.

He exhales. Sights the thing as it circles the tall Christmas tree, yellow eyes snapping to him and a dark tongue lapping at the air. There's a _hat_ on it. Lopsided. Bright red. A white plume swishes at the air.

It hisses.

Chris pulls the trigger.


	12. Rawr

**Taffer Notes:** January 1st: Found ~100 words - Your character finds an odd creature (3 choices were provided, I went for the three eyed kitten) Is it real, some sort of alien, has science finally gone too far?!

Fandom: **Dying Light, a Shielding Thing** | Characters: **Kyle Crane** and **Sadja Shielding**

* * *

 **#Rawr**

"Don't," Kyle hears Sadja say and does it anyway, because the thing curled up in front of him doesn't come with _don't._ It's all _please_ _ **do**_ — and his hand inches closer.

Two palms worth of fluff lies in a bed of fallen leaves by his knees. Short, silken looking fur— a mate blueish silver —and it's got feathers on its spine. _Feathers._ The fluffy type, all baby bird on baby _cat_ , because that's what it looks like as it's folded in on itself, a bushy tail tucked into round paws, the tip of it twitching against a stubby, pin nose.

Kyle's fingers land.

"Oh man, this is so—"

The thing's eyes snap open. One—two— _three_ of them, bright silver with pinpricks of rich orange fixating on him. Triangular ears flick down flat. And Kyle thinks _Well, shit,_ jerks his hand away. Too slow. Claws sink into the back of it— and the thing howls, hisses, and spits, and chomps down on a finger with teeth way too fucking big to fit the little mouth.

He _AAAHs_ at it and it _GNAAAWRHS,_ the tiny body latched to him so tight he thinks he's grown a glove made of things sharp.

And Kyle feels bullied, because she's laughing all the way through, from him trying to pet the thing, and the thing high tailing it up a tree with its tail straight and feathers ruffled.


	13. Pitter Patter

**Taffer Notes:** January 2nd: Cloudy - 200 words - Character has a very literal personal raincloud today.

Fandom: **Dying Light** | Characters: **Kyle Crane**

* * *

 **#Pitter-Patter**

 **March, 1995** _Undisclosed Location Middle East_ — "Fuck!" The wall by his head tears open, and Kyle dives for cover. A hail of shrapnel follows him, dirty and wet. He hits the ground, slides into the ankle deep mud, and the world turns around on him until he's up to his shoulder in the shit, flat back on the ground, and a face full of tepid rain. It comes down in thick sheets, muffles the gunfire echoing through the streets, and Kyle hates it.

 **June, 2003** _Undisclosed Location East Africa_ — _TWHUMP-TWHUMP-TWHUMP_ the helicopter blades drum above, and Kyle stares into the night rushing by, feels the drag of cold wind snagging at his uniform. Rain pelts them as they cut through the air, splatters the ground where he kneels and drenches his arm clutched to the frame of the helicopter. _"_ We've got new orders,"his earpiece spits. _"_ Aborting the approach, visibility below optimal. Repeat— _" Fuck this shit,_ he thinks and sits his ass down as the chopper dives right.

 **December, 2009** _Redacted—_ He doesn't really feel it. Not at first. But there's a cold weight around his midriff somewhere. A numb sort of itch, and his knees forget the whole _knee_ deal. They fold, and Kyle wheezes, because he knows he's gotten shot, just doesn't know where. His mind shifts gears. Revs hard, and he collapses. Gets cozy with the floor— the too fast sort of cozy, the one that ends with a _THUMP_ on wet, icy ground and his head smacks against it. _Shit-Fuck-God-Fucking-Damnit,_ he's ranting and can't quite tell if it's the sleet that's chilling him or if that's just _it._

 **September, 2014** _Harran—_ Kyle's really beginning to hate rain.


End file.
